SOAR-R-R-R

AND THAT VERY day it rained. No, not the fine cold drizzle common for this time of year in late November, with the air chilled to a crisp and a mist so fine you can wave your hand through it and not feel wet. Today’s rain was different, and Bryan was aware of it the instant he cracked his eyes and squinted at the curtains. It was an all-out downpour moving swiftly, and strong. Big angry raindrops pushed by wind, splashed on rooftops, pavement, cars; slamming hard like pebbles against Bryan’s windowpanes as he lay listening to its noise. He knew today was going to be messy.

His stomach sank.

For a moment--only a moment--he tried to imagine not doing what he’d promised to do today. The easy way out was to dive back under his pillows and not get out of bed, at all. Too cold, too wet, too soon--

And yet, wasn’t there something amazing and hidden, soaring just now inside him? Bryan could hear it in the rain. It felt like striking a match but being struck by lightning.

Why should a feeling of hope rest unknown and undiscoverable?

“Honey, are you going to do it? Are you going to get up and go?”

Mm-hmm, hon! Sure thing!

Lifting his head from the pillows, Bryan glanced back at Connie. After eight years of marriage and three adorable kids—all girls--Connie was still his sweetheart, his baby--the girl of his dreams. They’d met about a decade ago on a morning like this. It was pouring rain. He was running late for work—and was totally drenched . . . when, looking up, he spotted a pretty girl standing there alone, holding an umbrella high enough for him, and she let him wait there with her. It was a casual meeting, something she normally would never have done with a perfect stranger, but he’d looked so cute—and was so soaked--her heart went out to him that very moment, and the rest is history—theirs . . . So, even this morning with her hair slightly a mess, not wearing any makeup, Connie’s still his beauty. His love. She smiled at him just now and cranked her head to one side, awaiting his response.

“Yeah,” Bryan breathed, happily. “Let’s do this!”

Connie’s smile brightened and she rose; gave him the biggest squeeze.

Showering and wolfing down his bowl of Ramen Noodles—all they had in the house to eat—Bryan bundled up and left for the casino, walking in rain the full three miles to get there. When the repo man drove off yesterday with his pickup in tow, he didn’t chase after him. Good riddance! Having been presently the only vehicle they could afford, it was a wreck. The 2004 F-150 had a cracked engine block and a slow leak in the front passenger tire. And to think a casino might be this family’s only option, COVID really couldn’t do much more damage than its already done--

When he and Connie lost their jobs a year ago, they lost more than just their home. Like many of their neighbors in this community—all in the same boat--they’re barely making ends meet; living by the skin of their teeth: out of work. No savings. Low on food.

“You just gotta stop having so many kids," Bryan’s father teased after learning Connie’s expecting again; five months along—And everybody’s making employment suggestions these days—"Maybe you’ve gotta dumb it down some,” chuckled Trevor, his good friend. “Don't go in there expecting management positions.” Bryan had been a manager at a finance company. “Take whatever they offer you.”

So, swallowing his pride, Bryan applies for everything under the sun, including janitorial work, being told: “You’re waay too qualified.”

Still yet, Bryan was hopeful, and he felt that soaring in his chest as he braved, just now, this stormy weather, wiping rain from his face and ducking his head to walk against the wind.

Oklahoma’s big on Casinos and boast some of the largest in the world. The River Spirit Casino was the one he headed for, and the walk down Riverside Parkway was a straight shot. Vehicles on either side of the centered median swept by in a blur, splashing water. The whole way, Bryan leaned into the rain because the wind was so strong. If he had wings, he could fly there, climbing above the clouds to dazzling clear skies, even with the two bucks he has in his pocket? The last two dollars to his name--

Walking with his hands in his pockets, Bryan crushed the bills in his grip, holding them tightly for fear they might blow away--

But to look at Bryan, you wouldn’t know he was a man down on his luck. His family certainly didn’t see it. At home he was all smiles and cheery, and you’d never know he was broke--or hungry—by the way he behaved. Practically whenever he returned from job hunting, he’d always manage to bring Connie and the girls something home. Quite usually for Connie, he’d pluck flowers from the side of the road; or he’d surprise the girls with penny candy; and then he’d dance with them, singing some goofy song—they were only two, five and seven—and he’d bounce them on his knees, tossing them sometimes in the air, “Woopeee, bufferfly—Fly!” to their delight—they’d all dance and laugh.

“Sssshhh! Don’t cry, little one,” Connie encourages baby Katie, oftentimes—she suffers from allergies and requires special shots. She’s due one next week, if they have money. Already Katie’s eyes are runny and starting to swell-–“daddy’s gonna bring us some money home soon.”

Even as he entered the casino, then, Bryan felt a slight ting of hopefulness. He couldn't define it, but knew it was there just the same, almost like the hidden chocolates in the muffies he like from Panera Bread. Wow, Panera Bread! It’s been so long since he’d had a muffie.

At a counter, Bryan registered, and they handed him a facemask. He hadn’t been there since COVID began but things seemed slightly changed. The River Spirit complex is a massive place, stretching some 300,000 square feet of gaming floor, featuring 2,700 electronic games. There inside, the air’s saturated with the hum of many voices, accompanied by the constant jingling of bells and buzzers and people winning.

Walking the gaming floor always made Bryan think of Las Vegas--and the flame within him soars around every turn, up and down every aisle. He was a rocket inside. Flashing lights were going on and off here and there like fireworks announcing his coming.

Bryan had a plan: find the old lady. He’d heard that’s always the best method for winning. Casino slot machines are smart. Most of them payout after being fed a long time. And because old women usually come loaded with cash and are less prone to bounce from machine to machine as their male counterparts do, old ladies love to feed their machines. The trick was to target a lady, stick close by while she fattened up her machine, and then jump on it when she leaves.

Throughout a play, slot machines can payout a variety of amounts. Some pay as small as two cents while others, millions of dollars, depending on the machine, the bets, the casino, and the jackpot.

It didn’t take long for Bryan to find his lady. She was old and wiry, and the tips of her fingers were slightly yellow. You could tell she’d sat there a long time: the ashtray was full of butts and her wig hung crooked on her head. Her machine was spinning crazily, too--a sign she’d fed it lots of money. She kept tapping the button, the machine running nonstop.

Bryan found an open seat near hers and flopped down. He’d cashed his two bucks in for a fistful of tokens. He fed his machine small amounts while waiting.

It took about an hour of waiting, but the instant the old woman finished, Bryan grabbed her seat.

But no sooner had he sat down he saw it. The little black notebook.

He raised a token to drop in the slot but couldn’t ignore the book.

It was left obviously unaware. He had seen the woman take it out to look up a phone number. She made the call. But there, now, sits the darn thing on the edge beneath the ashtray.

Bryan glanced over a shoulder to see where she’d gone and saw her standing at the elevators, about twenty steps away.

On impulse he stood up, saying to a person sitting next to him—“Save this seat for me, can you? I’ll be right back!” and he went for the woman, rushing. But the instant he stepped away, another person came behind and took the seat.

The elevator opened.

“MA’AM!” Bryan called, running to her, waving the black book. “I think you left this behi--”

Looking up, the woman stops the closing door. “My God, I left it at the machine?”

Bryan nods yes.

“My Moleskine!” she exclaimed, excitedly, grabbing the book. “This book’s a lifesaver! It has all my phone numbers and important notes; dates, bank figu—Oh, how can I thank you, young man! I-I’m practically lost without it!” She beamed warmly at him, then the elevator door closed.

When Bryan returned to the seat, the person who’d snatched it was all enthralled in the machine—winning. Not a lot, but-- “here comes another $20!” and the machine spit and sputtered and shimmered out win after win after win. Nothing too big; just enough to make Bryan feel small for having played hero to a little old lady who lost her black notebook.

Disappointed and a little shattered, Bryan drops his head to walk away.

“Say pal,” says an old man, standing up. “I saw what you did. That was nice of you. Say, I’m done here on my machine. Why don’t you take my chair?”

“Thanks, but I think I’m done. I only have two tokens left.”

But the man insisted. “Don’t worry ‘bout that. See, I’ve left $20 on the tally. Be my guest. And good luck.”

Bryan thanked him and sat down. Over a shoulder he glimpsed the man joining up with a woman at the elevators.

“I sure hope this works!” Bryan says to himself, offering a prayer for good fortune.

He was on the Turkey Shoot game.

But the money went fast, the machine gobbling everything with a few spins. He felt corned in; he has his two tokens. He could still feel an eagle’s wings spreading-- and looking now, he saw he was down to only two cents. He hit the button. Zzzzoo! Zannnnnnnnnnn--zzzzzooom! -–and like crazy, ten extra spins.

“Really?” Bryan was talking to the machine.

--NOW! up to four bucks.

“Huhhh! There you go baby, keep it up … I love you lovely turkeys—gobble goggle gobble!”

He hit it again. $20 . . . $56—but it drops suddenly to $40.

The light in him starts burning low.

“I can hit it, I know I can!”

--And he plays until . . . it goes all the way down . . . to zero.

Disgusted and confused, Bryan sits looking at the machine and the last token he has yet to play. In his mind, he sees his family; their trusting faces--somehow the torch flickers to a flame. Can’t . . . let . . . them . . . down--

His last token.

At some point you’ve got to decide to win.

Bryan kisses the token with a prayer-–his fingers releasing it into the slot—and while the machine calibrates, he decides not to wait around to witness his fate . . . Getting to his feet, he starts . . . to walk . . . away . . . when—suddenly there comes a hoopla of blended sounds--noise so great it startles everyone--a flood of glaring lights exploding around Bryan, merging with the clinging of bells and buzzers—and the excitement of human voices--

. . . his mind was on chocolate muffies.

But the flashing lights and the ringing bells and the buzzers, with the noise of the people coming to congratulate him, broke through his concentration.

Pouring into the aisle from every direction, people jumped over barriers, glanced around machines--

“Wow, buddy!” said a stranger through his facemask. “Look at that, will you? You hit the Jackpot! You’ve won $20,000.”